


Stories

by ceralynn



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceralynn/pseuds/ceralynn
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley take in a play





	Stories

**Author's Note:**

> If you think you've seen this story before under a different name, you're not crazy. I just deleted and reposted when I thought of a better title because g-d I hated the first one. Also fair warning this story popped into my brain uninvited and I had to write it down so I can't vouch for quality. Enjoy it.

"I can't believe I wasted a bloody miracle getting us tickets to that."

Crowley says it loud enough for the other patrons of Richard Rogers Theatre to hear, but neither him nor his companion worry. Everyone around them also considers their getting a ticket a miracle.

"Bloody revisionist, white-washing garbage..."

"Crowley, dear, you know the casting was a creative choice, don't you?" Aziraphale tries. "I'm sure Mr. Miranda doesn't truly believe that Thomas Jefferson—"

"Oh, that's not what's wrong with it," Crowley snaps. "What's wrong with it is Hamilton was a cad! Come on, you knew the guy! Pompous, self-important, head so far up his own ass he could lick his own prostate."

Aziraphale blushes at the image.

"How many people from your head office got sent down, urging him to put his money where his mouth was with the whole slavery business?"

"Not enough, it would seem."

"And that doesn't bother you? Or is it no big deal Heaven lost that one, so long as his public image gets a facelift two centuries after the fact, all because some theatre kid gets a hard on reading a history book on vacation?"

Aziraphale's blush deepens and he's grateful for the dimness of the streetlights.

"You aren't wrong," he offers. "And I'll admit, it's worrying for these Americans to be walking around with such a glamourised picture of the people who founded the nation in their heads. But then, haven't they always?" 

Crowley grunts in something like affirmation.

"Anyway, Crowley, it's a story. Humans are always going to be generous in their stories. He was writing about who he wanted Hamilton to be. He was writing about the man he imagined when he read that biography. Is it so terrible that he stretch the truth, if the story that came out of it brought people joy?"

"Are you genuinely telling me—you, an angel—that lying is a good thing sometimes?"

"Oh, Crowley. Here, think of it this way: what if someone wrote a story about us?"

"Who's gonna write a story about us?"

"Plenty of people mentioned in the Bible probably thought the same thing." 

Crowley gives a little sigh.

"But really, if someone did, wouldn't you want them to be a little forgiving? Maybe make our whole, disavowing of our missions on Earth sound a little less.. treasonous?"

Crowley's quiet, because he knows what the correct is. What it should be. He has a vested interest in keeping his reputation in tact, real consequences he could face if anything tarnished it. He should want this would-be biographer to get creative, maybe imagine some motive that absolves him of guilt, if not wholly than at least a little. 

But the idea of their story being told without the love that brought him here, that had him powering through musicals he couldn't stand, all for the company of angel beside him; a story devoid of that love repulses him far more than any imagined consequences of the truth.

"No," he answers finally. "If that story doesn't include every inch of what a mean son of a bitch I was and am, then I don't want it told. What can I say, angel? I'm just a sucker for the truth. And if that makes me more righteous than you in this arena, I guess that's my cross to bear."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue, to at least admonish, but nothing comes. Instead he simply reaches out, entwines his fingers with Crowley's, and lets them finish their walk in gentle silence.


End file.
